


how will you know it's good (because you never do)

by mayerwien



Series: all of these stars will guide us home [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Filipino Lance (Voltron), Jollibee au?????, M/M, Vietnamese Keith (Voltron), don't look at these tags I didn't say anything what, keith overthinks everything because i project on him way too much to be healthy probably, space museum volunteers au, the one where they go to Jollibee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 12:04:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8844196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayerwien/pseuds/mayerwien
Summary: “This isn’t some kind of test you have to pass, y’know,” Lance says finally, slowly. “I’m not gonna break up with you because you, like, don’t know my favorite color or when my birthday is.”“Oh my god.” Keith puts his head in his hands. “I don’t know when your birthday is.”“Well, when were you supposed to find that out?” Lance makes a small scoffing noise. “It’s not like we asked each other to fill out a slambook page the first time we met.” “Yeah, but we—“ Keith stops and looks up. “Wait, what’s a slambook?”(or, Keith and Lance make a 1 AM pilgrimage to Jollibee, Keith questions everything in the known universe, and Lance just wants to eat his gravy and carbs in peace.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [celestialanne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialanne/gifts).



> This is a one-month-later timestamp for [my space museum volunteers au](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7703221)! I don’t think you have to read it first unless you want to, though; I’ve tried to make it so you can just take this oneshot and run. 
> 
> Title is modified from the poem “how will you know it’s good” by Joshua Ip, which also contains the line “men bare their souls by sharing their fried chicken,” and which is about KFC and not Jollibee but WHO CARES, NOT ME
> 
> Finally, this one is for celestialanne, who is my irl bff but whose AO3 I had to use my minor powers of deduction to find because she has been withholding her username from me for YEARS because she is lame. Booooo. (NINJA ADVANCED MERRY CHRISTMAS B!!!!! See, I told you I always know which one you are. 8D (…Um, but if it turns out my minor powers of deduction were wrong, and I accidentally gifted this to a total stranger—hi and oops. Sorry for the spam.))

“I can’t believe there’s actually a line for fried chicken at one in the  _morning,”_ Keith says. They’re standing in two separate lines at the 24-hour Jollibee, their backs to the glass door as they breathe in the smells coming from the deep fat fryers, crackling softly behind the gleaming aluminum counters.

Lance shrugs, not taking his eyes off his phone. He’s in a big rumpled shirt with a NASA logo on the front, probably the same shirt he sleeps in; at least Keith took the time to change into fresh clothes after Lance texted him an hour ago, crying insomnia and cabin fever and _starvation._ “This is the fast food place closest to the airport,” says Lance, mashing the worn, squishy buttons with his thumb. “Also, known fact: Jollibee makes the best fried chicken in the world.”

Keith cocks an eyebrow. “Better than your mom’s?”

“Crap.” Lance looks up from his phone suddenly, flashing Keith a grin. It’s the same dumb grin Keith has borne witness to almost every day for the past few weeks, but it still does something to the pit of Keith’s stomach that he absolutely hates. “Don’t tell her I said that. She’ll be serving my head for dinner next.”

Reaching over, Keith plucks the phone out of Lance’s hand. “Ancient indestructible Nokia that probably doesn’t even have voice command, dial Lance’s mom.”

“Shut up.” Lance grabs his phone back and scrunches Keith in the ribs.

It’s the kind of night that’s quiet but not peaceful, at least not to Keith. Everything seems infused with a kind of restlessness—the sound system inside the restaurant playing some sleepy bossa nova cover; the distinct rattle of utensils in the big plastic tray a staff member whisks out of the kitchen; the flickering light at the gas station across the street. The queues move along, Lance bumping his wrist absently against Keith’s, until the girl in front of Keith shuffles away with her full tray and he’s left facing the brightly smiling cashier.

Before Keith can even open his mouth, Lance slides over smoothly and rests an elbow on the counter, his signature Loverboy Smirk on. (By now, Keith has learned that Lance flirts with _everyone._ Flirting with baristas is pretty normal, but bank tellers? Security guards? The old lady who dropped her umbrella at the bus stop one time?) “Good evening, miss,” Lance says, winking. “It’s a beautiful night, and so are you.”

“Good evening, sir.” The cashier’s still smiling, looking completely unfazed. “Your pickup lines are terrible, and so is your grammar. What would you like to order?” Keith snickers into his fist, while Lance clutches at his chest and makes a gurgling noise like he’s just been shot.

After Lance recovers, they order a six-piece bucket of chicken, and Lance pays a little extra for a kiddie meal toy for his sister, a little purple plastic cat with a bobblehead and stars in its eyes. He also gets what appears to be a hamburger patty that’s been laid over a mound of french fries and soaked in gravy, but that also comes with rice and an egg. It’s very weird. Keith tries not to look at it too much when it arrives.

“Have a Jolli-happy evening!” the cashier says, once they’ve received their full trays.

“Thanks, _ate.”_ Lance clicks a finger gun in her direction, because they’re friends now. “Stay cool.”

 _“Salabat po,”_ Keith ventures uncertainly as he takes the tray. The cashier beams; Lance just snorts.

“You said ‘ginger juice’ instead of ‘thank you,’” Lance tells him as they’re edging carefully through the restaurant. All around them, couples are sitting side-by-side with their heads bent together, plates neglected on the table in front of them, and moms and dads are checking their phones in between placating their crying kids with spoonfuls of ice cream.

“You’re making that up.” Keith glances around at the full tables, freezing as a small boy pushes past him, a paper crown lopsided on his head. “Second floor?”

“Aight.” Lance is holding his tray in one hand; his other hand rests on the small of Keith’s back for just a second, guiding him up the first step of the staircase, before he jogs up ahead of him.

The second floor is far less occupied, just a couple of loners here and there yawning into their newspapers. The two of them grab a seat near the window overlooking the street, a small table with a bench on one side and a single chair on the other. Keith lays his tray over the sticky Coke rings on the tabletop and slides onto the bench, letting Lance have the chair because he knows he likes being able to rock it onto two of its legs.

It’s rare for him to get alone time with Lance like this. It’s been a little over a month since Keith finished his community service and signed on as an official volunteer—and it’s been more than good, seeing Lance and Hunk and Pidge six days a week, even if things at the museum have been getting more hectic. The workshops for the kids during the day, and the Director’s newest brainchild—a series of lectures and live Skype Q&A’s with scientists and astronauts from other countries, whose faces they project onto a screen in front of the audience—have been keeping all of them breathlessly busy. (The docents take turns hosting the sessions, talking into the microphone and calling on audience members who have questions for the guest speakers. After Keith’s first time as host, during which the microphone kept screeching at him and he kept dropping all his cue cards, Coran patted him and told him maybe it would be better if he went back to being an usher.)

There’s the occasional moment, though, when Lance is running one way looking for extra monoblock chairs, and Keith is running the other way looking for the sign-in sheet that’s gotten misplaced for the billionth time, that their paths cross for just a second. And in that second, Lance will say _hey, loser,_ and Keith will say _what, stupidface,_ and Lance will lean in and kiss him, quick and sloppy, before dashing off to the storage room belting a line from whatever Disney movie he’s got stuck in his head that week.

They talk about their favorite movies, and the best parts of their childhoods, and all the funny little nothings that happen at home—Keith’s cat learning how to open the fridge, Lance’s grandpa accidentally plugging the rice cooker into the wrong socket and blowing it up. But they don’t talk about what they are. Keith doesn’t know whether he’s okay with that or not. He doesn’t know whether to ask or not. And now that he actually _does_ have alone time with Lance, Keith isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do with it.

“You know, Hunk and I actually spent a full twenty-four hours studying here once,” Lance says, his voice snapping Keith back to the present. He’s already starting on his fries-and-rice-meal thing, his plate a hot soggy mess. “All three meals, plus afternoon and midnight snacks, nine to nine. Washed our hair with hand soap in the bathroom sink. You can do anything if you just believe… Hey, what’s with that face?”

“You’re eating _two_ carbohydrates,” Keith answers. “And extra gravy. I can’t watch.”

Lance scoffs and waves his hand airily. “Don’t tell me you don’t have weird Vietnamese eating habits. Noodles in rice paper, that’s not two carbs?”

“That,” Keith says stonily, rolling a drumstick onto his plate, “is different.”

“Hey, you know how McDonald’s is different in every country?” Lance tips his chair forward, grinning. “What do you wanna bet the Jollibees in Vietnam serve like, chicken phở but with pieces of Chickenjoy? Phởjoy. Or wait, I know. _Ph_ _ở_ _ncit ph_ _ở_ _labok.”_

“Please stop,” Keith says, trying to ignore the way Lance is waggling his eyebrows at him so he won’t laugh. He concentrates on his food instead, pulling a strip of chicken away from the bone with his spoon and fork. The first bite is even better than he expected—crispy skin giving way to the silky white meat underneath, the gravy slightly tangy but not unpleasantly sour. Keith raises his eyebrows in surprised appreciation.

Lance’s eyes are sparkling. “Soooo? Best fried chicken in the world?” he asks, leaning way too far over the table towards him.

“If I say yes, will you leave me alone and let me eat?” Keith takes a cool sip of his iced tea.

“That’s _not a real answer, Keith, you suck,”_ Lance complains, throwing his straw at Keith’s head.

“What are you, five?” Rolling his eyes, Keith reaches over to pick up the straw from where it’s bounced onto the bench. “I like it, okay?” he adds.

“Good, because otherwise there would have been Words,” Lance says with satisfaction, pointing at him with a floppy french fry before tossing it into his mouth.

Keith must pause too long, or something, because after that he can’t figure out how to start talking again; their usual banter has tapered off. They wind up working steadily through the meal instead, gently pushing the grease-spotted bucket back and forth between them. On the street below, a car or a motorcycle sputters by every now and then, just lights passing through and disappearing into the night.

When they have lunch back at the museum—Lance coming up with the absolute worst Would You Rather questions, Keith and Pidge secretly sneaking rounds of sweet potato out of Hunk’s container when he’s not looking—it’s never quiet like this. Keith doesn’t have a problem with silence, ever; he has a problem with silence coming from _Lance._ Is it awkward, being here with just him? Keith frowns. Is Lance _bored?_

“Oh, hey. So my little sister just got her first solo part in choir,” Lance says unexpectedly. For the past couple of minutes he’s been separating the skin from his piece of chicken with his hands, setting it on the side of his plate for later, collecting the bits that have crumbled off with his spoon. “She’ll be singing all the verses on Sunday.”

“This is…Annie, right?” On some days it seems like Lance’s family has more kids than the von Trapps; he has _three_ younger sisters, and one older one named Paulie, which Keith has learned is short for Apolinaria. (“Compared to that, Alejandro’s not such a mouthful, honestly, I could easily have been Saturnino or something.”)

“Amy. Twelve years old, and still no indoor voice.”

“Right, Amy. Sorry.” Keith frowns, trying to remember the rest of their names. Paulie, nineteen. Amy, twelve. There’s a ten-year-old and a seven-year-old, but which of them is Angel and which of them is Alliana? Or is it Alyssa? Dammit.

“Yeah, so anyway, she’s already _freaking_ out about what to wear. Been practicing into her hairbrush so much my mom had to confiscate it yesterday. I swear, I’ve heard the frickin’ song so many times all my sins have been forgiven.” Lance chuckles.

 _How is this even happening,_ Keith thinks, watching Lance scrape his tub of gravy out onto his plate and mash it into his rice, hating himself for questioning this moment while it’s still going on. But it shouldn’t be possible—that this very real, very alive person is sitting in front of him, talking to him, eating fried chicken at one in the freaking morning with him because he wants to spend _time_ with him. It’s like the universe hiccupped, or mailed a check to the wrong address and never asked for it back.

A follow-up thought occurs to Keith, the kind he can never stop from forming even if he tries. _Does_ Lance even like him that much? What if he’s just a summer fling?

What if—he’s not even that?

Maybe it doesn’t _matter,_ that Keith was the one Lance asked to go out tonight. Maybe he texted Hunk first but Hunk was already asleep. Maybe Lance is the kind of person who just goes around kissing other people and it’s no big deal to him, the way he already goes around Barney Stinsoning them just by way of greeting.

In which case, Keith is in _trouble,_ feeling the way he does—like he only really wakes up in the morning when he and Lance are tripping up the museum steps in a race to the locker room, Lance laughing hysterical, his eyes bright, hair still damp from the shower. Like he’s stopped breathing and doesn’t start again until the next time they manage to duck out of a tour into one of the dark corners of the Discovery Wing, Lance’s mouth hot on Keith’s neck, Keith’s fingers digging into Lance’s waist through his shirt, security cameras and Coran’s knowing eyebrow raises be damned.

Now that Keith thinks about it—who could he possibly _be_ to Lance, anyway? Lance has more family than Keith is even capable of imagining, rattles off the names of friends and cousins and classmates more easily than Pidge rattles off the names of stars. Keith, on the other hand, is painfully aware that the museum and the three of them are all he has. It’s pathetic, how much they’re keeping him alive, week to week, day to day. If he thinks about it too hard, it makes his chest feel tight.

But it’s the growing _oh god, what if I’ve gotten this all wrong_ feeling that’s digging deeper and deeper into Keith’s stomach now, putting down roots and curling around his gut. The possibility that to Lance, he might just be another notch on the friendship bedpost.

Keith tries to pick up his spoon again, but finds he can’t even do that; his appetite is completely shot, no energy left to try to finish his food. He fiddles with his utensils instead hoping Lance won’t notice, scraping his shoe over a large tacky spot on the floor underneath the table, someone else’s soda gone to waste on the grubby tiles.

“…birthday’s coming up, and I know all she really wants is a kitten, which is a huge problem,” Lance is saying, unwrapping his second mound of rice.

“Why don’t you just adopt one from the shelter?” Keith manages, softly, still trying to tamp down the sick feeling.

Lance crumples up the wrapper and makes a face. “I would, but I’m allergic to cats, remember?”

“You are?” Keith blinks.

“Yeah, dude, I thought I told you? Sneeze like crazy, swell up like a pufferfish? Only time I’m ever not devastatingly handsome?” Lance asks, blowing up his cheeks in demonstration.

“Shit. Right, right. Sorry.” Keith presses his lips together.

Lance stops making the pufferfish face. He puts down his spoon and fork and studies Keith, head inclined slightly, brow furrowed, which makes Keith’s cheeks start to burn. He doesn’t know where to look; he drops his gaze and tries to look anywhere but back at Lance. The fluorescent lights seem too bright, suddenly, the place where they are ridiculous and all wrong for the kind of quiet that’s blooming between them.

“This isn’t some kind of test you have to pass, y’know,” Lance says finally, slowly. “I’m not gonna break up with you because you, like, don’t know my favorite color or when my birthday is.”

“Oh my god.” Keith puts his head in his hands. “I don’t know when your birthday is.”

“Well, when were you supposed to find that out?” Lance makes a small scoffing noise. “It’s not like we asked each other to fill out a slambook page the first time we met.”

“Yeah, but we—“ Keith stops and looks up. “Wait, what’s a slambook?”

“What? It’s that thing, y’know, the girls do it in grade school—“

“The one where they write about how much they hate each other?”

“No! You write your name and what you want to be when you grow up and which Backstreet Boy is your favorite…”

“Wait, stop. I’m starting to forget what we were originally talking about.”

“You were in agony.” Lance reaches out and ruffles Keith’s hair. “Also, my favorite Backstreet Boy is Kevin. Also also, at the risk of making you feel like a terrible person, I know when _your_ birthday is.”

 _“What?”_ Keith grabs Lance’s wrist and pulls it away from his head.

“December 21.” Lance shrugs. “I checked your file back at the museum like, weeks ago. It wasn’t that hard.”

Keith opens his mouth, then closes it again. Frowning down at his plate, he mentally rewinds their conversation, going over it again line by line until he reaches the important part. “Wait, you said ‘break up,’” he says.

Lance cocks his head. “Yeaaaah?”

“So does that mean we’re…” Keith feels his throat close a little, his heart thudding, hope and fear mingling together in his chest—but he forces himself to take a breath, to say the word. “Dating?” he asks quietly.

“Um.” Lance makes a soft noise and lifts a hand to his mouth. It takes Keith a while before he realizes Lance is struggling not to _laugh._ “I thought that was obvious? Like…what do you think we’re doing right now?”

“Well, how am I supposed to know when we’ve never _talked_ about it?” Keith scowls and looks away.

“Aw, look at you.” Lance grins. “Do you want me to get down on one knee and ask? _Keith_ _Vân Ki_ _ề_ _u_ _, will you change your Facebook relationship status with me—“_

“Lance.”

“Because I will.”

“Lance, _shut up._ Second question, how am I supposed to _know,_ when you flirt with everything that moves except me?”

“You—oh my god.” Lance screws his face up, then awkwardly rubs the back of his neck. “Um, wow. Okay. It’s like this. I flirt with everybody else because—geez, this is _embarrassing,_ I can’t believe I’m explaining this to you.” He groans and tugs at his hair with both hands, and Keith notices belatedly that Lance is _blushing._ He needs a moment to take it in, because he’s never seen Lance like this before, all stammery and grasping at words and so completely un-smooth. “Aaaggghh, okay,” Lance says. “Look. I flirt with everybody else because it’s just, like, whatever. It’s when I’m _straight_ with you that I’m flirting with you, get it?”

“But you’re never straight with me,” Keith says dryly. “You’re always super super gay.”

“Wise guy.” Lance kicks him lightly under the table, then hooks his ankle around Keith’s. “Hey,” he says. Keith looks up. Lance’s eyes are soft, worried. “Sorry. I guess…I just assumed you were thinking what I was thinking.”

“I’m not sure I ever know what you’re thinking,” Keith murmurs, a little sullenly, even as he feels himself thawing. “Sometimes I think you live on a different planet.”

 _“Me?_ Buddy, you _know_ me. I’m an open book.”

“Well, I guess I just really suck at reading, then.”

They’re quiet for a moment. Lance stays looking at him, then gets up from his chair and carefully lowers himself onto the bench beside Keith. They both gaze out the window for a while longer, not saying anything, just watching the moths dart towards the fingerprint-studded glass. Keith turns his plastic cup around and around in his hand, trying to turn his thoughts into clear sentences in his head so they’ll make more sense, trying to smooth down all the strange sideways feelings in his heart.

“Why do you even like me?” he whispers.

“Dude.” Lance stares. “Are…are you seriously asking me that?”

“Yeah, I _am.”_ Keith whips his head around, glaring. “We’ve only known each other a month, and we _hated_ each other the day we met, how can I not be suspicious of that?”

“It—doesn’t feel like that to me?” Lance looks genuinely surprised. “I mean…I _know_ it’s only been a month, but A, we didn’t _hate_ each other, we were probably both just hungry or something. And B, you can’t deny we’ve already gone through the wringer and back together. In more ways than one now, thanks to Allura and Coran, the slave drivers.”

Keith starts to answer, then stops and lowers his gaze, because damn it, he’s right.

A smile quirks at the corner of Lance’s mouth. “See? Sometimes, the quality of the time trumps the actual time. And it’s _okay_ that, like, neither of us is going to win the Newlywed Game anytime soon. We’ll get there eventually. Or not. Ugh, I guess what I’m trying to say is, when you ask me why I like you…” Lance shrugs. “Can’t you just trust me?”

“I don’t trust _anyone,”_ Keith replies flatly, which makes Lance burst out laughing. “Sorry, sorry sorry,” Lance says quickly, waving his hands. Sighing, he lowers his hands into his lap, then curls them into loose fists, like he’s reeling parts of himself back in. Keith waits.

“Okay, look. I realize it was stupid of me,” Lance says finally. His voice is low now; stronger than a whisper, not quite a rasp. “Not being clearer about this. I guess I…I was thinking we were taking it slow, so that’s why I didn’t talk about it.” He knots his hands together, playing tug-of-war with his own fingers. “But also, you make me a little crazy, and sometimes that gets the better of me, and that’s why when I get five minutes of breathing time I don’t think, I just push you up against the wall. I—I dunno. Or maybe I wasn’t even _ready_ to talk about it.” He rakes a hand impatiently through his hair. “God. Sorry. This sounds worse the more I try to explain it.”

“No, I get it…I think.” Keith exhales. “I mean, I knew you a grand total of one week before I, um—“

“Before you kissed me,” Lance supplies.

“Yeah. So…it’s not like I had my head on straight about all of this either.”

“True. But hey, now we’ve known each other a month, which is like, forever in Disney time.”

“Ha.” Keith bumps Lance’s knee with his, pauses. “I think I trust you,” he says.

 _“Ouch._ Well, _there’s_ a pickup line I’ve never heard before.”

Keith rolls his eyes. _“No,_ look, you already know I’m not great with—people in general.” He raps his plastic cup gently against the table, beating out an uncertain rhythm. “But you…you’ve already seen all the parts of me I hate. I’ve told you things I don’t tell—anyone else, pretty much. So, um.” He struggles with the lump in his throat for a second, before speaking again. “I guess…maybe that means you could trust me too?”

“Hey.” Lance is smiling, that _it’s okay_ smile Keith never quite feels like he deserves. “Already do, pal.”

“Okay.” Keith sucks his breath in. “Ask you one more thing?”

“’Kay.”

“I know this is all messy and confusing as hell, but…” Keith pushes his thumb into the worn side of the cup, making a dent, then letting it pop back out. “While we’re figuring out—whatever we are. Can we just…not call it ‘dating’?”

“What? Why?”

“Because. ‘Dating’ sounds terrible, it sounds like candlelit dinners and bouquets of flowers and stupid stuff we’d never do.”

“I cannot believe you’re arguing cement mix with me right now.”

“Cement m—oh my god, Lance, _semantics.”_

“Whatever.” Lance bounces both his knees up and down (he can never sit still, Keith thinks, not really), palms flat on his jeans. “Soooo…” He clears his throat and rocks forward a little, craning around to see Keith’s face. “If we’re not mortal enemies anymore, and we don’t want to be dating, um.” His cheeks are flushed again, his eyes liquid and questioning. “Do you wanna just…go ahead and be boyfriends?”

And oh god, Keith’s heart _stops._ For a second it feels like his mind’s gone blank, and he’s completely horrified at himself. And then he realizes, his mind’s not blank at all—just clear. Because he’s looking at Lance, sitting there in his soft pajama shirt with his hair sticking up on just one side, his head tilted and an anxious expression on his face—and he _knows_ what he wants, thinks he’s probably known for a long time.

Slowly, Keith nods.

Lance breathes out, his shoulders slumping in visible relief as he leans back against the bench. “Thank goodness. We did it, we figured it out. We’re boyfriends. Wait—“ He sits back up and gasps. _“Holy shit,_ I have a boyfriend!” Reaching around, he pats himself on the back. “Yay, cement mix!”

“I don’t get how it can be this easy,” Keith mumbles. He looks down and realizes he’s squashed his plastic cup flat.

“Well. It’s _not_ easy.” Lance reaches out and gently pulls the crushed cup out of Keith’s grip. “Case in point, I accidentally gave you an emotional crisis.” He plays with the parachute cord bracelet on Keith’s wrist for a while before touching all five of his fingertips to Keith’s knuckles, softly running his fingers along Keith’s until he’s covering his whole hand. Keith swallows, blinking. Lance curls his fingers around Keith’s and squeezes, briefly but tightly, before letting go.

“But?” Keith whispers.

“But I like _you,_ Keith.” Lance turns to look at him, and his eyes are brimming over with an emotion Keith isn’t sure he knows how to name, raw and intense and clear. “I _like_ you. I want this to go somewhere, I want us to—keep doing stuff together, whether it’s big stuff or just more dumb two-in-the-morning stuff like this. So…I’ll try to be more careful about, um, talking about things. Or not _not_ talking about things. Not screwing up again. You know, the works.” He nudges Keith’s shoulder with his, a small smile beginning to spread across his face. “And if you ever feel like we’re going too fast, and you wanna dial it down a notch…it’s okay. We’ll figure it out together.”

“Okay.” Keith clears his throat and glances away. “Thanks for the clarification.”

“You’re such an ass.” Lance laughs, leaning over and nosing into Keith’s neck. He presses a kiss just underneath his jawline, one hand darting up to rumple his hair, before grabbing Keith by the wrist and hauling him to his feet. “C’mon, boyfriend. Man, I love that word. I am a _genius.”_

“Ow! Where are we _going?”_ Keith yelps.

“Somewhere you can loosen up,” Lance announces as he drags Keith across the floor, in the direction of the children’s play area. When Keith realizes what Lance is about to do, he starts to protest and tries to pull away, but Lance gets him by the neck of his T-shirt and threatens to rip it straight down the middle if he doesn’t comply. And that is how Keith allows himself to be shoved facefirst into the plastic ball pool, while Lance whoops and does the approximation of a cannonball into it beside him.

“It smells like feet in here,” Keith complains, once he’s resurfaced and breathing through his mouth. “And old french fries.”

“Ah, the sweet scent of youth.” Flicking his wrist, Lance beans Keith on the side of the head with one of the brightly colored balls. “Boop! Three-point shot from Macalino. And the crowd goes wild!”

“You—” Keith grabs a ball and hurls it back; the solid _ping_ it makes as it bounces off Lance’s forehead is more satisfying than Keith will ever admit. Making an indignant noise, Lance proceeds to scoop as many balls into his arms as he can, and attempts to throw them all at once, only succeeding in making a sort of half-hearted shower of balls that doesn’t touch Keith at all.

The next couple of minutes is a wild, rainbowy blur as they pelt each other back and forth, yelling words that are probably against the play area rules hanging above the shoe rack. Keith is aware that the other customers on the floor are staring, but somehow he doesn’t care; for now, he’s full and happy, and he thinks maybe his chest is lighter than it’s ever been.

“So,” Lance pants, once they’ve stopped hitting each other. “Are we okay now?”

“Not yet.” Keith feels the smirk forming on his own face without him even trying. Before Lance can finish asking, “Wait, what?”, Keith has tackled him backwards, his hands on Lance’s shoulders, his knees locking around Lance’s thighs. The mountain of balls collapses underneath Lance, and rises up to consume him with a mighty but faint clattering sound.

 _“Now_ we’re okay,” Keith laughs, rocking forward and resting his weight on the heels of his palms, pushing Lance further down into the pool. Lance’s sea-colored eyes widen in shock, then narrow, his mouth scrunching up into a childish pout.

 _My boyfriend,_ Keith thinks, looking down at him. _Mine._

“I’ve changed my mind. I hate you,” Lance grumbles, voice sounding slightly squashed. “So much.”

“Hate you too,” Keith murmurs, his smirk softening into a smile. He leans down and touches his forehead to Lance’s, closing his eyes for just a moment. Then he pulls Lance back up, shoves him back against the mesh wall of the play area, and kisses him until a staff member sticks his head through the entrance and informs them the ball pit is only for ten-year-olds and under, and _please_ can they stop doing that and get out before he calls the manager.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Pinoy Food 101:  
> \- [Pancit palabok](http://panlasangpinoy.com/2009/09/10/asian-filipino-food-noodles-pansit-pancit-palabok-recipe/) is a noodle dish made with a shrimp sauce, usually topped with bits of [chicharon](http://tagaloglang.com/chicharon/) and slices of hardboiled egg.  
> \- my words cannot do justice to [Chickenjoy](http://www.jollibee.com.ph/chicken-joy/), Chickenjoy IS the best fried chicken in the world, fight me Colonel Sanders  
> \- Lance’s heart attack of choice is also a real Jollibee menu item; it is called the [Ultimate Burger Steak](https://3rdworldgeeks.com/2013/07/31/ill-review-anything-jollibees-ultimate-burger-steak/) and is equal parts magical and I-regret-all-my-choices-in-life. 
> 
> 2\. Keith really did say “ginger juice” instead of “thank you.”
> 
> 3\. I half-considered putting a joke at the end that involved the line “tastes like chicken,” but I didn’t. be proud of me guys I’m so mature
> 
> 4\. Okay, I swear I never intended to keep writing in space-museumverse, but then one day I thought “hey, wouldn’t it be cute if Lance took Keith to Jollibee” and then that idea expanded into “hey, what if they went to Jollibee but then somehow wound up trying to figure out the parameters of their relationship,” and then SOMEBODY said “BUT WHAT ABOUT THE BEACH, LANCE PROMISED THEY WOULD ALL GO TO THE BEACH,” and now this fic series looks like it’s going to be at least a trilogy? (??????) So stay tuned for part 3, Keith and Lance and Everybody and Their Mom Go to the Fukin Beach and I Hope You’re Happy You Loser, probably coming to you spring 2017.
> 
> With this one, it was kind of hard figuring out what would realistically come after a kiss that was supposed to end everything with an open happily ever after—but halfway through writing this I realized it was kiiiiiind of a fun challenge, dealing with the repercussions of having a whirlwind enemies-to-lovers-in-a-week love affair. Also, writing about an Established Relationship(TM), because I literally never do that ever like da hell


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